Quincy
by daincrediblegg
Summary: Hancock makes a friend in the Quincy Ruins. Based on a surprisingly popular tumblr post.


Quincy was such a fuckin' dump.

Hancock really wasn't surprised to that fact. The end of the world did that to places, no matter how well touted they were, no matter how big the welcome sign was, no matter how important it might have been before. The way some book in the Old State House described it, this place was supposed to be the "city of presidents". It flourished in hyperbole the place of John Adams's birth, that it's where that same man's son got his middle name, hell, where his own namesake came to be. Whatever the history, clearly none of that mattered now, and by the rubble, piled mile high on the tired, imploded little town, it didn't matter much pre-war either.

They'd already cleared out the gunners (not an easy feat with Baker packing a Fat Man), and Nora re-traced her steps through the trash heap to the Police Station. She said something about doing a favor for a friend. He took up guard duty outside while she went down to the basement for whatever it was she thought she'd find down there. Hopefully she wouldn't. He had ten caps riding on it, after all.

It was moments like this he didn't know how he felt about getting out of Goodneighbor. Not like the fresh air and abundant sunshine wasn't a pleasant change, but with the sun beating down, almost irritating his dark eyes, and an all too soothing wind seeping into every crevice of his skin, it felt like his senses were teetering on the edge of too much all at once.

His town was nothing like this. It always managed to remain in a well earned darkness, even in daytime, and the air was always so full of chems-without one hell of a rad storm to blow it all away, the air got stale real quick. He shouldn't have left, really. Sure the place was in good hands with Farenheit around, but who knows what kind of ugliness like "No-Nose" might crawl out from under the surface. Ugly shit like-

Just as he had that thought, a small mewl echoed in the ruins, and he poised himself for action.

A small naked bundle of an animal scampered out from the side of the building opposite him. At first glance it looked like a really small mole rat, but with a far more defined silhouette, lithe but stumbling. Hancock lowered his weapon as soon as he lifted it, and curious watched the creature.

The little being pattered on down the patch of untouched concrete and into the light. Definitely too small to be a mole rat, it had big triangle ears, rounded at the tips, and a face virtually hairless, grey skinned, save for a speckling of pink flesh and a hint of small white fur on its nose.

Then it stopped its waddle of a walk, and finally turned its head to take note of him right back, with big grey eyes and a pert little mouth.

It was a _kitten_. A small, _strange_ , little kitten.

Hancock was awed, and lowered his gun until it was pointed to the ground. It tensed, and jolted, rocking at the sudden move. Seconds passed slowly as the creature assessed him from the other side of the street, just as thoroughly as he'd been a moment before.

He stood shoulder-slumped, relaxed. He held eye contact, blinked once or twice, and waited.

Hancock had expected that it would run away as soon as it saw him. He wouldn't have blamed it if it did. He was used to the full treatment. He was big and scary and had a mug like brahmin jerky, and he was the kind of guy you didn't get close to unless you tried- and there hadn't been a whole lot who had gotten that far.

Still yet, beyond all reason, without any further hesitation or a shadow of doubt, it gave a pretty squeak, and began to wander towardhim.

He breathed a breath he never realized he'd been holding.

"Well I'll be damned…"

The wide-eyed cat gazed up at him with pin-thin, fascinated pupils when he was finally within kicking distance. He could have tried to shoo it away, or made some advance that would spook it enough to save itself. He just didn't have enough heart to do it when it meowed sweetly at him again, brushing up it's side against his calf, rumbling slightly from it's high-pitched purr.

"Hey there little guy," he cooed as he watched it perform a perfect figure-eight through his boots. As though it were a natural reflex, Hancock knelt down, laying his sawed-off out of his way. He brought his hand to face-height and the kitten's head reared back before its nose inched closer, barely hovering above his fingers. With a small lick to his sensitive skin like fine grain sandpaper, he took it as a sign that he wouldn't shy away at a scratch behind his ear.

Hancock's heart lurched when he touched it. The small little thing, purring like it was the best day of its life, was freezing cold.

He remembered a time like that. When his skin wasn't enough and his only bed was cracking pavement. He remembered the nights the most- the ones after he'd run out of jet and the air bit him at every passing breeze. The nights when he'd dreamt of his knife sliding between the ribs of one of Vic's boys just for a space beside a rusted barrel set ablaze. The nights he'd spend far out of reach of any sign of light in favor of a shield from the rain.

And he remembered the night they gave him no quarter, no shelter and no hope of seeing another daylight. The night he'd asked in vain for anything to make the shivering stop- a shirt, a parka, anything would have been nice. The night his muscles began to give, and the boys eyed him with suspicious eyes behind dimly warm lit corners, waiting. Just one slip was all they'd need. One miss-step to bring him to his knees and they'd take care of the distance between him and their boots.

They would've done when he finally collapsed.

Would've if that stranger hadn't stepped in.

Would've if he hadn't helped him to his feet.

But they didn't. Pity was an insult, and they were taking the loss out on the poor bastard instead. He'd never forget the way his cap cracked open where he slept. How comforting the steam from his blood looked, how he longed to bathe in it for a brief touch of life, and how sick to his stomach he still felt at the thought.

In the end the stranger did give him what he needed, with a pocket full of chems and a guilty conscience enough to wind him up high as a kite in the state house, looking at the clothes that would make him who he is.

The kitten stood on its hind legs, laying gentle pin-prick paws on his knees, returning him to the present. He looked up at Hancock, and he should have dismissed it as coincidence that looking into his big, grey eyes felt like he was looking at himself through a looking glass.

Should've shooed him and been on his way.

Should've been on the pavement instead.

Should've done a lot of things.

But he couldn't deny the shivering bundle that sought his presence, who looked at something bigger and stronger than him and saw a friend- a chance at life.

Another, strained mewl, and all was decided in Hancock's mind.

Behind him, the door to the police lock-up opened.

"Hey, John! You owe me ten caps!" Nora waved an orange and white bit of plastic behind him, before stuffing it in her pocket.

"Don't worry, I'm willing to take an I-O-U if you-"

Hancock stood up hastily, fixing something on his person, hardly taking note of her gloating. Nora arched an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

Hancock turned, stone-faced as he finally faced her. In the vertex of his shirt, the small head of the kitten poked out, eyes flitting closed in comfort, purring ever still at the warmth his body brought to him.

"I'm keeping him."

Nora smiled, shaking her head with a soft chuckle. She stepped closer, and tickled the cream-catching cat under the chin.

"You should. Poor little guy is just a sitting duck out here."

He purred at her support in return, and Hancock gave a low chuckle.

"Not if I can help it. I'll name him Vice Mayor when we get back to Goodneighbor. He'll want for nothing."

Nora smirked.

"Isn't that technically Fahrenheit's job?"

"I think she'll understand."

A couple more well-earned scratches, and Nora lifted the discarded gun from off the ground, handing it to her companion before beginning the long trek home.

Hancock's attention remained on the kitten all the way to the limits of the town, smiling and watching as he fell into a comfortable slumber tucked in his linens.

Just as they crossed the threshold of the gates, he felt Nora's elbow softly poke at his arm

"Well?" she prodded, "Thought of any names?"

In thought, he turned his head back, the gate bearing a white skull, symbol of the gunners that took up residence there, and smiled.

This place may be just one big trash heap, but Quincy would certainly give it a good name again.


End file.
